“What were you thinking?” He hissed, before wrapping his arms around her and squeezing her so tight she couldn’t breathe. He kissed her, hard and long, until her knees were jelly and she clung to him to stay upright. “Why didn’t you leave with the others?”
“I thought that if they didn’t see anyone, they’d keep looking until they found what they were looking for.” She replied, pointing toward the other secret door. “But a dirty maid, in the poorly lit storage room? Why would anyone look any further?” He kissed her again and thanked her for her quick thinking.
She pulled the dress out of the pail and turned it inside right, and even wrinkled, Will declared it perfect for the occasion. He went a little way up the stairs so she could dress, and left her in the library to finish cleaning up, closing the curtain across the doorway so he could talk to the police without her being bothered. Once her clothes and hair were set to rights, she began re-shelving the books, and after a few minutes, Alma joined her. She told Meg that the police were leaving, ad because of the excitement, even more people were waiting to eat, (and more were waiting to go downstairs too) she added under her breath.
Still no one passed by them, and Meg was disappointed that it seemed the party was canceled for them. Will treated the family to a gigantic creole French supper, and they listened to the accordion musician and talked to other friends who had barely missed the exciting raid, filling them in on the details. Meg blushed when William told her part in the adventure, and swore that he was embellishing greatly, but Alma just reached over and rubbed a thumb across her nose, then showed her the dust there, which made Meg blush even harder.
At eleven o’clock, the restaurant was closed, and everyone not headed to a party of their own, followed Will down the stairs. Meg sadly followed her aunt and uncle, wondering if they could really have any fun with the room so changed. She perked up her ears when she heard music floating up the staircase, and as she turned the corner, her jaw dropped in disbelief. It was as though nothing had happened.
The lights were burning bright, tables were out and a lively card game going. The piano was at the side of the small stage, and the casks were hanging above her head once more, when she looked up.
“How?” She whispered to Will. He grinned and winked at the barkeep, who waved his hands and shouted for the music and talking to cease.
“To our lady of the evening!” He called out, toasting Meg with an upraised glass. “The little lady who stayed behind and saved the evening, and the speakeasy!” Meg ducked her head and tried to hide behind Will.
“To Meg!” Alma chimed in, hugging her from behind. “To the southern belle who completely befuddled the cops, and saved New Year’s Eve!” eventually, the cheers died down and Meg was seated with her family at a table, a bottle of fine, aged scotch in front of them, listening to jazz that sounded so bright Meg would have believed it was springtime outside.
A few minutes before midnight, Will spoke to the pianist, who slowed the tempo of the music, and while a rolling jazz ballad was sung by the saxophone, He took Meg’s hand and led her to the dancefloor. Holding her tight, they circled the floor, her head resting against his heartbeat, until he tipped her face up so he could look into her eyes.
“You put yourself out on a limb for me,” He murmured, shaking his head. “There really isn’t a way to repay you, but is there any way to show you how much I appreciate you?” She smiled and sighed. She was already exactly where she wanted to be, in a frozen wonderland where she could read and play music and speak her thoughts. There really wasn’t anything better. So, she asked for the one thing only he could give her, then, and forever, as far as her heart was concerned.
“Bring me my luck for the new year, William.” She asked, pulling is face down to hers. “Kiss me now, and tomorrow, and as long as I can have you.”
He kissed her sweetly, then deepened it as cheers went up all around them and the clock was counted down. Nine, eight, seven… he told her loved her and kissed her again. Five four three…she told him she was his forever. The clock struck midnight, and the dipped her back and kissed her as deeply as he had ever done, until he took her breath away. He lifted her back to her feet and held her tight, staring into her eyes, glazed with need and desire.
“Oh, my sweet jazz darling. Happy New Year, my beautiful Meg.”
THE END
Portia’s Inspirational Journey
“But I don’t understand, Maggie. Why do you want me to go to Missouri? I thought you liked having my help around the house, and I’m a good seamstress. Why are you so determined to be rid of me?” Portia was near tears as she stared blindly at the advertisement in the Matrimonial Times.
“You can’t stay here forever, Portia,” her guardian and employer chided her gently. “I couldn’t afford to give you a proper coming out, and you don’t want to end up an old maid like me, do you?”
Portia looked up at her adoptive mother through a filter of tears. “I would have stayed with you forever if that was what you wanted. But if you think it’s best for me to go, of course I’ll obey.”
“Oh, child, it isn’t about obedience to me anymore. You must think of yourself now. You have all the skills needed to survive out on a nice farm with a man who needs your ability to cook and organize.”
“But, Maggie, there are other things out there too. Things I thought I’d never have to be afraid of again.” Portia couldn’t stop the tears that slid down her face. She’d been born out on the plains to a farmer and his wife, and she still remembered the day that the Indian war party found them.
Mamma had hidden her in the cellar under the barn, and Portia had stayed there all through the night, scared and alone. She didn’t even try to move until she heard the soldiers calling out for survivors the next day. They had hidden the bodies of her parents from her, but even now, Portia could summon the memory of the bloodstained ground that turned her home into the stuff of lifelong nightmares.
Portia looked down at the advertisement again and reread it for the hundredth time:
Homesteader needs wife of good disposition, plain of face and in words, who is suited for the life of a farmer’s wife. Will be well provided for and close enough to town to never want for company. Inquiries to be made to the Matrimonial Times, Missouri City, Missouri.
“It does say the homestead is close to town. Even if there were trouble, at least help would be nearby,” she relented, and Maggie nodded.
“I want what’s best for you, Portia. Nothing is more difficult for a child than to lose her parents. Go and be free.” Portia managed a wan smile.
He wanted someone plain in face and honest and hardworking—Portia was certain of those things. Her mother had been a plain woman, and even though Maggie had told her she was beautiful once, she knew that few men would want a woman like her. So she’d worked hard for as long as Maggie had been her caregiver, learning to cook and clean and organize a household.
Along the way, she’d become an accomplished seamstress, and Maggie’s customers frequently asked for her to work on their purchases, lightening her mistress’s workload.
“But, Maggie, what will you do without the help around the shop?” Portia asked with a tremor in her voice. “I would never forgive myself if you lost business because I left you without assistance.”
“Oh, I’ll be fine, Portia. Young Bess is coming along quite nicely with her training, and if nothing else, she can at least keep the shop clean, so I can focus on sewing. I always knew this day would come. Don’t you fret?”
But Portia hadn’t known the day would arrive when she’d be sent away from the safety of the kind Quaker’s apartment above the Lancaster dressmaker’s shop. She forced a smile to her face and climbed the stairs to the apartment and sat at her small secretary desk to reply to the ad.
Dear Sir,
I am compelled to respond to your advertisement in the Matrimonial Times, as I am a marriageable-aged woman of some small means who has the skills required to make you an acceptable
wife. I am more than capable of keeping an organized and welcoming home for a hardworking farmer, having spent the first part of my life on a homestead in Kansas. I await further correspondence.
Thank you,
Ms. Portia Billings
Portia gently blew on the last line of ink to dry it. With a sigh, she addressed the missive with the return provided to a box number at the Matrimonial Times and handed it to Maggie. Her guardian set it on the console table outside her office.
“We can mail that when you feel comfortable, okay?” the older woman asked kindly.
“How long do you think it will take to get a response?” Portia asked without much enthusiasm.
“I would imagine it might take quite a while, Portia. Now put a smile on that pretty face and unlock the door. We have early appointments today, and I want my best seamstress to greet our customers when they come in.”
Portia grimaced at the small mirror that hung in the hall between the storage room and the dressmaker’s shop. She wrinkled her snub nose and sighed. If only she were pretty, she thought. But her eyes were a murky hazel, under heavy lashes that she thought made her eyes look small and close together. She patted her chocolate hair and hid a smattering of freckles that flecked the bridge of her nose and cheekbones.
They were high, at least. Most of her looks she thought she got from her mother—dark skin, dark eyes, and hair that she wished held the sunlight like Maggie’s young Irish apprentice, Bess.
No, she thought to herself with a sigh that sounded suspiciously like self-pity. She was no beauty. But she was smart, and her handwriting was as impeccable as the stitches in her hand-sewn garments. She unlocked the shop door and set her painted sign out on the boardwalk, inviting visitors—either male or female—to enter and be measured for Lancaster’s finest shirts and dresses.
As customers started to wander in, there was so much to be done that Portia forgot all about the letter she’d intended to send. And at the end of a day spent largely on her knees, measuring the ladies of Lancaster for their spring wardrobes, the entire morning’s conversation was the furthest thing from Portia’s mind.
She gratefully bolted down the supper of corn bread and honey with milk and early peas from Maggie’s little greenhouse in the greenspace behind their building. With a sigh she trudged up to her little room above the shop and sat by the window that overlooked the street below. The crowds of the day had thinned to mostly men, heading to or from one of the public houses that dotted the city. Cabbies lit their carriage lanterns so the horses could see their way as twilight fell, and in the distance Portia could see the lamplighters making their way toward her, streetlights flickering to life as they lit the one by one.
She closed her thin drapes and fingered the material, reminding herself that she’d promised Maggie a new set for each bedroom before springtime brought in too many customers to leave her time to sew for herself. She undressed and fell onto her bed, exhausted from a day well spent. As she drifted to sleep, she remembered the letter on the table downstairs. Oh well, she thought to herself, there’s always another day to worry about leaving the dress shop and Maggie. Content that she was safe for a little while longer, she floated to the land of her dreams, of petticoats and all the prettiest dresses she could imagine creating.
2.
Corbin whipped his horse until the poor mare was frothing at the mouth, then he urged her still faster until he could see the steam from the train station. He plowed through town with no attention to who he was barreling out of the way and skidded to a stop near the platform and the mare shuddered and huffed as he slid from the saddle and threw the reins to a nearby porter.
“Where is she?” he growled at a pale dandy watching him approach with wide, frightened eyes. “Where’s my Glory?”
“I don’t know, Mr. Geoffs. I truly don’t. She said she’d be here, and she never arrived.” The young man swallowed hard and backed away from the broad-shouldered farmer. “Please, don’t make a scene. We’re both gentlemen here.”
Corbin laughed evilly. “Who told you that I’m a gentleman, Smith? Because they lied to you.” He continued to stalk the younger man, who backed away, stammering, with his hat in is shaking hands.
“Corbin Geoffs, stop terrifying that poor boy this instant.” Sheriff Poll swaggered up from the ticket house and put himself between the advancing farmer and his prey. “That poor boy was just another one of Glory’s playthings and you know it.” He stepped up to his friend and lowered his voice. “Let’s go back to my office and talk about this over a cup of fresh coffee.” He glanced behind Corbin and shook his head. “That poor nag looks like you run her near to death. What were you thinking? Women are replaceable. A fine horse like that little girl is hard come by.”
Corbin laughed without humor and glanced back. He really did feel bad seeing his poor Duchess trembling and struggling to catch her breath.
“Gawd almighty. I wasn’t thinking clearly, was I? Okay, I’ll get her to the stable so she can get some care and I’ll meet you at the jail.” Corbin turned toward his horse and glanced back over his shoulder at the young Mr. Smith, still holding his hat in front of him as he brushed imaginary dust from his suit. “Don’t let me see you back in Wildwood, Jed Smith.”
Sheriff Poll stifled a chuckle as the young man’s face went an even greyer shade of ash and he picked up his carpet bag and swiftly strode to the far edge of the platform.
“Did you have to do that to the poor kid, Corbin? He already got taken for a ride by your ex-fiancé. Surely you know what that feels like.” Corbin shot his best friend a dirty look.
“Why dies she keep coming back to town? She rolls in on a train with a new beau and a new scheme, rains havoc down on our town and my life, then runs away again before I can nail her down and hand her over to you to put in that pretty jail cell you have waiting for her.” Corbin ran his hands through the thick shock of hair at his neck and groaned. “Can’t you just arrest her on sight so I don’t have to know she’s here?”
“Sorry, old friend. If it helps, I probably could now, but I’d need a judge to give me a warrant, and she seems to have friends in high places.”
“You mean lovers in high places. That woman is a whore without the honor.” The sheriff let out a surprised guffaw.
“I remember when you thought the sun rose in her eyes, Corbin.”
“Don’t remind me,” was the farmer’s disgusted reply. “Look. I’ve got to walk Duchess over to the stable for some water and a rubdown and maybe a little grain once she’s feeling better. I’ll be to you in a few minutes, okay?” The sheriff tipped his hat and the men split up, with Corbin heading toward the stables and his friend continuing his rounds, now that he’d managed to stop the catastrophe at the train station.
Corbin glanced over his shoulder to make sure that Sheriff Matthew Poll wasn’t watching him, then tied Duchess off in front of the town newspaper printer and stuck his head inside.
“Any mail for me, Charlotte?” he called out when he didn’t see the grandmotherly redhead at her desk.
“Mr. Geoffs, is that you? Hold on, dear. I’m up a ladder at the moment, but I have a letter from that mail-order periodical of yours.”
“I’ll be right back for it, ma’am. Let me get my horse to the stable and I’ll return. No need to hurry.” Corbin returned to a much happier Duchess, who was already breathing normally and no longer trembling from her exertion. “You’re a good girl, you know that? I’ve never ridden so fast in all my life. Extra grain for you, once you’ve been combed out and had time for water to get out of your stomach. He patted her nose and she ducked her head to the trough again. “Enough of that now, or I won’t be able to feed you oats without giving you colic,” he admonished, and Duchess nickered at him and bumped him with her nose again.
He walked her down to the stable at the edge of town. It was a bit of a walk, which he knew would help her recover from her long sprint, and the stable was run by his uncle, which assured Duchess would get not
hing but the best treatment.
“Hi, Uncle Corbin!” came a young exuberant voice from the rafters as he approached. “Can I help with Duchess today?”
It was his little cousin, Bran, hanging out of the hay loft and waving at him. he was young enough, that “uncle” was a simpler title for him to use for his much older cousin, and Corbin had gotten used to the misnomer. Now it was their inside joke, and Corbin waved enthusiastically at the little tow-head.
“Ahoy there, Uncle. How goes it in the rafters?” Bran giggled and slid down the rope like a chipmunk.
“I’m not your uncle, Corbin. I’m your cousin.” Corbin smacked his forehead with the palm of his hand.
“That’s right, young Bran, you are. Now where are your older brothers? I’ve some coppers in my pocket, if there are young men willing to treat my Duchess like the royalty she is. Bran called out for his brothers and took the reins. Corbin slipped two pennies into his chubby little hand and winked. “You make sure they rub her down good, and watch her water. She was run real hard, and needs time to recover still.” Bran nodded his head until his blond hair covered his eyes.
“No problem, Corbin. I’ll see you when you get back, and maybe do some more chores for you?” he glanced down at the fist that hid his money, and Corbin grinned.
“Sure thing, Bran. A hard-working entrepreneur like yourself should be rewarded, right?” he rumpled Bran’s hair and turned with a wave toward his uncle Bill and aunt Liz, who waved back and sent their older boys to help Bran with the horse.
When Corbin ducked back into the newspaper office, Charlotte was waiting with a thin package tied with twine.
The Thanksgiving Day Bride: Mail Order Bride Novels Page 45